I am Toffee
by theintuitivealmond
Summary: Toffee wants a drink. If you enjoy the story, support the author by liking, commenting, or subscribing. Any love or hate is much appreciated :D


Toffee, was belligerent. The earlier peace-treaty had worn him down. His façade which was so often stoic and calm was freckled with annoyance. And still his men wanted him to celebrate. A resigned creature by nature, Toffee did not often partake in indulgences; celebration was arbitrary, fleeting even. But to his men something was expected of him; how could a monster like him not celebrate today? Today was his day! They would raze Toffee's name into mountains, chant his memory until all of Mewni knew who he was. They wanted everything and nothing of him: they were celebrating the King, not the man. Toffee warded off their advances steadily like a gazelle to a lioness until their rambunctious words began to sway even himself.

A quarter to midnight, the manic sound of his men's cheering was still audible through the satin tendrils of his tent. And still, Toffee had not decided whether to celebrate. He tapped his fingers on his desk. A drink would suffice for him, a drink would suffice enough for celebration.

"Rasticore." Toffee called to his Lizard-servant. "Your assistance is needed."

Toffee enjoyed being alone. It was not quite known if this was the natural tendency of the Lizard, a remnant of the time when a large hunter or larger Lizards were tantamount to death, or if quality had sprung from Toffee himself. It was due to this tendency that Toffee was often found alone in his tent, a structure which was meticulously rigged to his design: large enough for comfort but small enough for claustrophobia. The threads of the tent were red, red like the clay of Mewni or the flowers that bloomed in the northern hills. Toffee sat cross-legged and upon a makeshift desk of sorts, the wooden slab supporting his copy of _Mewnipendance Day_, outdated by this age, and a Mewni map he had obtained from a traveling merchant.

The map, engraved with the previous owner's doodles and haphazard writing, was stained under its new ownership; Rasticore had splashed wine against it a few days before. The occurrence had been accidental, but the reprieve had been strict. It was common, in an army such as this, to court-martial an indolent who tampered with the belongings of an officer. A lesser general would have disposed of such a servant, but Toffee was not a lesser general: everyone had their purpose, everyone had their use.

"You may come in, Rasticore."

The servant strode into the room. Rasticore, as he was named, was a giant of a Lizard even by Lizard standards. His eyes, which resembled those of the illicit rattler, were sharp. His shoulders, which pulsed with thick veins, fused together to hold his thick tree-trunk neck. His arms, which contained the power to collapse the strongest of mountains, held the most delicate of trays. His hands were shaking; every moment frightened him. "How may I serve you, my liege?" Servile duty was unbecoming of Rasticore; Toffee knew it would refine his skills.

"Rasticore, fetch me the best wine in the camp. Not too dry, not too bold; red. If it's too earthy return it, and if you need to return twice, do not bother returning at all. Do I make myself clear?" Rasticore nodded and strode away. Toffee resigned himself in his chair. His pensiveness went away. His need to celebrate would soon be quenched.

Toffee, a raindrop in the ocean, lost himself to thought. He was not the fastest of the Lizards, nor was he the strongest; amongst his kind, he was weak. Mewni doctors, if asked, would tell you that a Lizard such as he, similar to their hand-sized cousins, had a brain too small to have coherent ideas. His kind, which evolved slower than the hills, were said to have the necessities of mind to flaunt their strength and not the structure to have intellectual and meaningful thought. Toffee was from a damned species, doomed to be nothing but fools and ruffians. To the Mewni doctors, he was not better than a viper or typical garden snake; to most lizards, he was nothing less.

Toffee closed his eyes. He tasted the air. It tasted of ash; it tasted of the Queen.

In a dense field a few miles away, a Peace Treaty was to have been signed at Dusk. Queen Comet, the calm and kind, had arrived half an hour before with a precession that rivaled any Arthurian legend. There was much dancing, much merry making, as the Queen and her beloved attendants waited to consecrate their historic meeting. Ten minutes till, the Queen had found herself quite surprised: she had never expected to meet a Lizard. Much less a sea of fire.

Toffee remembered Comet, surrounded by flames, pressing her arms against the ground. The fabric of her gloves were gone, blood-stained and burnt. Her legs were broken. Her men were dead. Many of Toffee's were gone, too. Any survivors of hers were being dealt with, the laughter of Lizard-men like those of night-beasts that roamed the plains. The crackle of the fire created a chorus, an antistrophe to the peaceful silence that engulfed the bare field. It had been beautiful once; death gave no exceptions.

Comet struggled to crawl away.

Hundreds of miles away, young Moon lay in bed with the royal wand. Comet had not needed it for the occasion: there could be no peace with the remnants of war. She scraped her fingers across the warm ground, gravel cutting into her nailbed. Her actions were pointless, she knew; she wanted to believe she had the option to escape. An ensnared fox could escape if one leg was caught; it was a different tale if it had two. Comet heaved herself on her bleeding palms, restraining the tears that brimmed in her eyes. She dared not turn around; she knew he would be there.

"Good sir, please let me go! We do not have to continue in this manner. If you let me escape—

if you let me escape this can be forgiven, your actions washed away. Please, let me go. I-if I live, there can be peace again. The relation of your People and mine no longer has to be coarse. Don't let these moments be fleeting; please sir, I beg of you: let me go."

"My liege, I have returned with two wines".

Toffee fluttered his eyelids. "Two, Rasticore. I do believe I said come back with the best."

"These were the only bottles the camp had to offer. And I know little about wines, my liege. One of these has to be the best." Toffee sighed. This scruple was beyond him. "Open whichever of the two you think is better. You'll know if I agree with your choice". Rasticore uncorked the left-most bottle and struggled to pour the liquid. Two drops splashed onto the desk, an event Toffee chose to ignore. Today deserved no punishment: even he could be lenient.

The finished outcome was better than Toffee had anticipated. He swirled the delicate glass. The liquid flowed easily, the scent refreshing. It reminded him of the dirt, of flowers. He took a sip.

"Is it to your liking, my liege?"

Toffee stayed silent. "You may leave now, Rasticore". Rasticore bowed and made his way out. Toffee lifted his chalice to his lips and took another sip.

The wine was putrid, unrefined. The wine, which had been produced a few miles away, had gone bad long ago. It tasted to Toffee like the wine had been dead before the fruit had been fermented; it had been doomed to fail, and Toffee tasted every drop. He eyed the second bottle. It had come from the same place.

Toffee swirled the liquid in his glass. His need to celebrate had elicited this concoction, he had no one to blame but himself. If he had chosen to do nothing as he pleased, he would have not been stuck swallowing the death-scent of a rotting kingdom. But it was better to have tried then have sat around doing nothing. It had been his decision to order the wines, and he accepted his actions. He filled his chalice once more and looked into it. He had made these events happen; now he would live with it.

The Lizard remained mute. It was quite some time before he spoke.

"There was peace once, your Highness. And then your people came". He surveyed the field. No stragglers, no wand. "I was alive when the first Mewmans appeared on the horizon, and I was there when your forefathers first created your City on a Hill. If Lizards were blessed with the knowledge of foresight, we would have done something about that long ago. I assume all regrets are like that, in retrospect; it's all of series of "what ifs"".

"Do you want to know what my greatest regret is, your Highness? We saw this coming. Not this per say, heaven knows I would have dreaded that, but this conflict, this unease. The second Mewmans began encroaching upon Lizard and Monster land, we knew our days were numbered. Yet we did nothing. As you walked into our homes, we did nothing. As you pillaged our peoples land, we did nothing. As you slaughtered our brethren, again we did nothing. And our silence kept you quenched; you drank from our inability. Did Mewmans ever wonder why Lizards never fought back? All of monster kind was against you, but never the Lizards. You probably never noted this difference, we were all monsters to you. Lizards never had a need to fight back; we did not fear death. Death did not exist for us, death was only a deliverance. And then you came along. United the Magic High Commission, earned the trust of one of the greatest Monster Tyrants, and suddenly death became a possibility. We knew you would have the ability to win us over, we knew you would try to bring about a peace, and we knew, once this peace was secure, you would look for ways to kill us all, just as your forefathers had done, just as your remnants will do after."

Comet collapsed. There was no use running anymore, the hunted could only go so long. Her tears washed the grime from her eyes.

"I apologize, my Queen. But this is the way it has to be. I have lived to see this cycle of War and Peace perpetrate itself time and time again: treaties signed, and words secured. But in the end your people always skin our lives and leave us to dry. Your people are never quenched, and we, my Queen, will always be left in thirst. You have to know, My Queen, that there comes a time when the cup of endurance runneth over and men are no longer able to live with the injustice at hand. We may be Lizards, your Highness, but even we understand this."

"Please," Comet cried. "Let me go. This can be forgotten! We can change the human-monster relations! There is no need to continue on with this cycle of violence. Please, I beg of thee: let me go!"

"I apologize, my Queen, but I am no longer in a position to offer you this one condolence. You cannot crush an ant colony by going after its workers: you have to go after it's queen."

"Please," she whimpered," have mercy! I have done nothing but good for your people!"

"And that sentiment will never be forgotten. But sacrifices have to be made for change: one civilization gives rise to another. In burning a field, new flowers grow from their ashes."

"Lizard, please—!"

"Do not worry, My Queen: everyone has their purpose, everyone has their use."

Comet felt her senses begin to fade. "Who are you?" The Lizard bared his teeth.

"I. am Toffee."

And the Queen was no more.


End file.
